she is my lioness
who breaks my self
in her jaws:
how she knows the very lack
that i am,
the man
that i can't be,
the way i hurt those for whom i care most
(i use other's faults as salve on my conscience).
why she lets her claws grow long:
so when she's
sprawled on her back
underneath a linen sheet,
she can draw down my back
ten grenadine trees.
the way she reminds me of what we share most.
why she lets here claws grow so so sharply:
so that she can mark me
with barbs,
speckle me between
my freckles and my weakness,
a portrait
of my character
in scarlet,
a warning
to my lovers of
the harm i commit.
then her nails,
a desert sunset:
scimitar
descended.
sever my flesh:
the alabaster sand.
she makes of my savannah
a scrap heap,
scraping a shattered sky.
she is my lioness
the queen from whom
i beg greatness and shine.
i am her nighttime mirror:
pale moon to her glow.
without her
i would not know,
wouldn't ever learn
the folds and the turns
of our sleep,
wouldn't ever see
the color of her maw:
the sick, lavender tan
of our sheets,
when my self
is broken in her
jaws.
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